Unusual Love
by ICanStopAnytime
Summary: Claire consoles Sayid after Shannon's death and shares a secret about her own feelings. Sayid, Claire, Charlie, Locke.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: Much of this story was previously part of my longer work "Love and Redemption (a.k.a. Aftershock)." This work was only on briefly; I removed it so I could break it up, edit it, add to it, and make it several separate stories of interest to different audiences. "Strange Love" features Sayid, Claire, Locke, and Charlie, with mention of Shannon and Nadia. _

**Chapter One**

Sayid barely spoke to anyone for three weeks after Shannon's death. He didn't eat much either, and his pants had begun to hang rather loosely about his waist. He could not bring himself to sleep in the tent he had built for her, and so he slept on the beach, when he slept at all. In the daytime, he threw himself into work: grinding physical labor was the only relief he could find, and so he began to build shelters for those who were currently without individual lodgings of their own.

On the twenty-first night after her death, he was lying in the sand not far from Claire's shelter, gazing up at the brilliant night sky, when the clouds opened and the cool rain poured down. He didn't bother to move. Claire came out of her tent and begged him to take shelter with her. At first, he ignored her, but then for some reason, he rose and came inside. The baby was murmuring, but he was asleep.

Claire tossed Sayid a towel and then went back and sat down on her blanket. He sat on the tent's floor on the other side of the crib and began to dry his dark curls. "This tent is rather small," he said, "for you and the baby."

"It works," Claire replied. "Lie down, Sayid. Try to get some sleep. You haven't slept more than a few hours a night in…it's been a long time."

He didn't say anything in reply, and he continued to sit.

"I know Jack sent Libby to talk to you."

"Psychology is …" He didn't finish, he just lay back on the sand, his arms behind his neck.

"You didn't talk to her at all, did you?"

He didn't answer.

"You know, Sayid, you're not the only one to suffer loss on this island. We've all been through some pretty horrible things."

She didn't expect a response; she expected stony silence. Oddly enough, though, he spoke. Indeed, he started reciting poetry. _"That loss is common would not make / My own less bitter, rather more/ Too common! Never morning wore / To evening, but some heart did break."_

It was clear he had surprised her. "Tennyson," he said, by way of explanation. "I used to read a lot of poetry before the war, when I was at the University in Cairo. It's how I practiced my English."

"I've read Tennyson," she said, and surprised him by quoting some lines of her own: "'Tis better to have loved and lost / than never to have loved at all."

"Also from _In Memoriam_," he said. "You know it? You are young."

"What?" She laughed. "Too young to read good poetry?"

"No, it is merely that people your age usually do not bother to, that is…nevermind."

He was silent again.

"Well, what do you think of those lines?" Claire ventured.

"I might have believed them once," he said.

He had lost Nadia to the vaults of time, but he did not regret having once loved her, because that love had begun to transform him. When he had searched for her all those years, he had done so never knowing what he might find. A happily married woman? Perhaps. At least, she would certainly not be twiddling her thumbs and waiting for him. She was strong, determined…she would live her life fully, vibrantly, and with meaning. He had no doubt of that. But then again, he had been searching for more than just her, hadn't he?

Although he had once nursed a hope that Nadia might be free, he had discovered that clinging to that thought drew him farther and farther away from those around him. Nadia had not written that they would meet again so that he would languish in solitude, and he had not done her honor by clinging so fiercely and uselessly to a fantasy. He had deluded himself into thinking it had been an act of loyalty to close himself off to the world; in doing so, he only prevented himself from completing the transformation that Nadia's words had begun to work in him.

And that was why he had again opened himself up to the possibility of love. That was why he had let his guard down when he heard Shannon sing, why he had let the beauty of her voice prick his soul. And she had changed him too. But those wounds were too deep, too fresh to be endured…

"It would have been better never to have loved her," he said bitterly.

"Don't say that," Claire replied. "Would you, for any price, give away your memories of Shannon?"

For the longest time he did not answer. Claire thought she had pushed him too far. She would not press him farther. It was more than he had said to anyone in three weeks…it was, perhaps, as much as he could say. She rolled over on her blanket and tucked her hands under her cheek.

From the other side of the tent, she heard his voice faintly. "She did not say it back."

"What?"

"Shannon. She did not say it back. When I said I love you, before…before…She did not say it back."

Claire wanted to go to him, to hold the poor man in her arms like a mother…she hadn't felt like a mother all this time on the island; she had been so insecure with her own child…but she wanted to mother this grown man now.

She knew he would not permit it; he would not be vulnerable. So she remained where she was and said, "She loved you, Sayid. She loved you."

"How can _you _know that?"

"How can you _not_ know it?"

She was nervous when he did not reply. But she was just as afraid of breaking the silence.

At last, he spoke. "Thank you, Claire." And then it sounded as if he turned over. "This place is really too small for you and the baby. I will never sleep in Shannon's tent. You and the baby should move into it. It is much more spacious, much more secure. I will take this place."

"Sayid…Sayid, are you certain?"

"Yes. It is senseless to allow her tent to go to waste. It is the best tent I have built. You and the baby ought to be the ones to benefit from it. Tomorrow, I will…I will bring our things here, and Charlie or Locke, I am sure, will help you move your things into Shannon's tent."

"Thank you, Sayid, I know it is…" She was going to say "a big step for you" and realized how condescending that would sound. "Thank you. If you change your mind…it's okay."

"I will not."

After that he didn't speak, but she heard his breathing level, and she thought he must have fallen asleep. Indeed, he had fallen asleep, and he slept for six hours straight, the longest stretch in three weeks. The baby's initial cries did not awaken him. When he finally awoke, Aaron was already suckling at Claire's breast. Sayid blushed in embarrassment, but Claire only shrugged. Modesty was a luxury now. 

"I am going to start going through Shannon's things," Sayid said as he rose to leave the tent. On the way out, he almost bumped physically into Charlie. Charlie glanced at him, and then at Claire's tent. It was still quite early in the morning, and Sayid thought he saw jealousy and anger mixed in Charlie's countenance. 

"I just went to tell Claire," Sayid said hastily, to preempt the possibility of any misunderstanding, "that I want her and the baby to have Shannon's tent. Will you help her move her things?"

"Of course," said Charlie, clearly relieved. "Yes, of course."

"I will return in awhile. I need to get Shannon's things."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sayid stood outside the tent where he and Shannon had become one flesh, and he took a deep breath, as though he feared it would be his last. Like a man plunging into a cold pool all at once to get the horror over with quickly, he pushed through the entrance. On the sandy floor lay the decaying remnants of flowers.

He walked past them, kneeled before Shannon's suitcase, and slowly undid its clasps. He opened the lid and began sorting through the contents. He took out the shoes—that first gift he had given her, after he had first noticed her, really noticed her. He reached in to lift out a bikini, and felt something sharp prick him. He dug a little deeper and pulled out an unexpected object—the tiny figurine of a ballerina.

He examined it closely and felt a sudden wave of tenderness overwhelm him. What had this little treasure meant to Shannon? He would never know. There were so many things he would never know about her. That chance had been stripped violently from him.

From where they sat packing in the other tent, Charlie and Claire could hear the sounds of great, wrenching sobs rising like a wave in the distance. Charlie looked nervously to Claire. "Should we go over there?" he asked.

"God, no, Charlie. Leave him alone. It's the first time he's done this. It may be the last. Let him be."

It was another thirty minutes before Sayid arrived at Claire's tent, dropping his own suitcase on the sandy floor. He didn't have Shannon's. "I've left her things for you," he said. "If you can't use them, find someone who can." As he spoke, he reached into his pocket to finger the little ballerina he had placed there. It was all he wanted to keep.

Sayid did not hear Claire say, "Thank you" as he began walking down the beach, trying to run from his thoughts, struggling to outpace his emotions. Charlie was soon hurrying after him, calling his name. Sayid slowed down so Charlie could catch up, but he did not stop walking.

"Can I have your gun?" Charlie asked when he had finally drawn up along side him.

"My gun?"

"Yeah, you're gun. You know, so I can protect Claire. I mean, you don't exactly need it anymore."

Sayid whirled around angrily. Charlie's mouth had already fallen open; he had realized too late what he had said, and how it had sounded. He stuttered, "Sayid, I didn't mean…I didn't mean…I mean…what I mean…"

Sayid reached behind his back and violently pulled out the gun. He fiercely grabbed Charlie's hand and slammed the barrel hard into his palm. The metal stung against his skin. "Take it," Sayid growled. "You are right, so take it. I have no life worth protecting, not even my own. I could not even protect what was entrusted to me."

And then he stormed away down the beach.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The next night, as Sayid again walked along the beach, as he now did every night, he could not help but think of Charlie's words. He no longer had anyone to protect. He had failed Shannon, just as he had failed Nadia, just as he had failed his family and his God.

"Let it go!" he cried aloud to himself as he stumbled up the beach, not knowing where he was walking. "Let it go." Had not Allah dispensed with all this guilt? From the moment he had shot himself in Iraq until this moment, his life had been one long work of penance. So why did his sins and failures still haunt him? "Let it go."

"Let what go, Sayid?"

Claire's voice broke his bitter revere. Without knowing it, he had walked to Shannon's tent.

"Nothing," he spat. "Nothing."

"Sayid, you look unwell. Your brow…you're sweating. Won't you come inside? I have some water. I will cool it."

He shook his head no, but he followed her inside. He sat cross legged on the tent floor, and waited for her to pour water on a cloth. She wiped his brow, and when she trailed the cloth down his cheek, he grasped her hand. She dropped the cloth, and he pressed her palm to his lips. "You are kind," he said, and he let go of her hand.

She sat down across from him, but she did not try to make him speak.

"It was all my fault," he murmured as if she were not there. "Nadia…I heard she was captured again, before she escaped for good; I did not go with her to protect her. I failed her, like I failed Shannon. I was a soldier! I was trained! How could I not have sensed the danger? Shannon is dead because of me." He was talking to himself, talking to the ground, talking in front of her, but not to her. She let him talk. "I thought Allah had forgiven me. Why do these thoughts still plague me?"

Was he asking her? She did not know. Hesitantly she asked, "Who's Nadia?"

He swallowed and at last looked at her, startled, as though he did not realize he had been speaking all this aloud. He looked away.

"Sayid, I can see your soul is troubled. And I know, sometimes, it helps to talk to another person."

She did not think he would open up, but to her surprise, he began to speak. "I should start with Nadia," he said. "For me, it all began with Nadia."

And then he told her everything. He told her how, as a child, he had loved a charming girl who had been beyond his grasp. He told her how he had grown to be a solider, and how he had tortured men. He told her how Nadia had begged him to come with her, and how his courage had failed him. He told her how he had betrayed a friend for the mere fantasy of love, and he told her how, after all the pain he had suffered and all the wreckage he had wrought, he had managed to open up his heart to Shannon.

Claire did not hide her horror as he revealed his past, but nor did she hide her compassion. And when he choked and said, "I abandoned them. I abandoned them all," she reached out to him and gathered him into her arms like a hen gathers its eggs beneath its wings, and he did not resist. His spirit was too broken for his pride to prevail. So he simply rested his head on her chest like a child, and she rocked him while he wept.

When he was done, he pulled away, ashamed of his tears, and yet relieved.

"I think you know God has forgiven you," Claire said gently. "Your problem is not that you need God's forgiveness. It's that you haven't forgiven yourself." When he did not deny the truth of her words, she continued, "We have all done horrible things in our lives, Sayid. But you can't…you can't…it's morbid to meditate on them forever. Stop punishing yourself. Please, Sayid, stop punishing yourself."

He sighed wearily and nodded. "Enough," he said softly. "It is enough."

She smiled gently. "I hope you find your Nadia again someday, Sayid. You found her here, in Shannon. If we ever escape this island, in your next life…perhaps you will find her again."

"Perhaps." And then he looked around the tent and said, "I had better leave before Charlie finds me here. He is growing a bit possessive."

She flicked away the thought with a wave of her wrist. "Charlie," she said with exasperation. "Well, at least he can be really caring sometimes," she said. "And he loves me."

"It is good to be loved, Claire. There is not much else of worth left to us on this island. And yet…he does not deserve you."

"Can I make a confession to you now, Sayid, since you have made yours to me?"

"By all means." He couldn't imagine what she could have to confess. To him she looked as innocent as the driven snow.

"I am in love."

"Well, then, if you love Charlie in return, why not tell him? He would be thrilled."

"Not Charlie," she said. "I feel bad for him, but the heart wants what the heart wants."

"Indeed it does."

Silence.

"Claire, are you going to tell me whom you love?"

"Locke."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
**

For a moment, Sayid merely sat in stunned silence. Finally he asked, "Locke?"

Claire nodded.

"Claire, he's old enough to be…"

"What? My father?"

"Yes."

"You're…like…sixteen years older than Shannon was," she insisted.

Sayid admitted her point, but he did not precisely conceded it. "That is different," he said, though he could not precisely say how. Certainly the age difference between him and Shannon meant that, if she had lived, they would have had to work regularly to find common ground. In many ways Shannon had still been a child, especially in the way she had interacted with her brother and sometimes even with him, but he had believed that, in time, she would mature, and he had wanted very much to be the one who helped to shape her character. At any rate, the gulf of experience that lay between them had certainly not stopped him from loving her. So he decided to change the course of his objections. "Well, but, Locke is…I don't want to say he's crazy, but he's…"

"Thanks for the encouragement," Claire said dryly and glanced at the napping Aaron, who had begun to stir.

"I apologize," he said. "It is just…I am surprised. Why do you love him, if I may ask?"

"He has been so good to me and the baby. He built the crib. He helped me with many things. He's strong. And yes, he's a bit peculiar…but would you call a mystic crazy, Sayid?"

"Not crazy. But consumed by something, like Locke is consumed by this island. Not crazy, no, but not exactly boyfriend material." And then he shrugged his shoulders and said, "But if you love him, I wish for your sake he will return that love. You of all people, Claire, deserve happiness."

She came over to him and kissed his cheek gently. "You're sweet, Sayid. I wish I could be in love with you. It would be so much easier."

He laughed. "And I wish could be in love with you, too. It _would_ be much easier." 

They looked at each other affectionately for a moment—as a mother at her son, as a big brother at his little sister. "Well then," he concluded, and held his hand out for hers. "When you need a friend, you know where to find me." She gave her his hand and he kissed it quickly.

He then slid out of the tent and in a few feet encountered Charlie. This was inconvenient. Charlie glanced at the tent. "You've been awfully chummy with Claire," he said suspiciously. "This is the second time you've come out of her tent in the early morning."

"It is the middle of the afternoon, Charlie."

Charlie drew himself up and tried to look fearsome. It was all Sayid could do to keep from laughing. "You know what I mean."

"No," said Sayid, "No I do not. Why not tell me more directly?"

"Do you have a thing with Claire?"

"Yes, Charlie, I have a_ thing _with Claire. It is called friendship."


End file.
